


PCT

by Partnachklamm



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2019-10-17 15:56:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17563532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Partnachklamm/pseuds/Partnachklamm
Summary: They're not exactly sure how they got there, but they'll figure it out. Eventually. Maybe.





	1. Fog

It’s four in the morning and he’s wearing his jacket in bed. 

 

Well, to be fair, Sugawara ponders, it’s only three-quarters of his jacket, as he seems to have wrestled one arm free and left the rest hazardly zipped and clinging to his sweaty body. But beyond the half worn jacket and it causing him to itch under the covers, there are more pressing matters to be addressed. Like, for example, why is he awake at the devil’s hour on a day off. And why does it smell funny in his room. 

 

And why is he wearing his jacket. Yet, naked from the waist down. And why—

 

Wait. _Wait_. What. Was that between his legs. 

 

In his 18 years of life, Sugawara followed a strict regimen of keeping calm. Always be in control of the situation. Now, that’s not to say he’s a control freak but, instead, prefers to be considered a master manipulator; an expert regulator of his emotions and could calm a whistling kettle to a lukewarm brew. Maybe. But there are moments like these, where his pupils dilate and his heart threatens to jump out of his throat as the extra knee he’s now discovered in his bed nestles between his thighs that his near perfect facade falters just briefly. 

 

Soft hair tickles the back of his neck. A grunt, and swallow of breath. 

 

There’s someone else in his bed. 

 

Keep calm, Sugawara thinks. Keep— there’s a hand on his hip that shifts in its hold under his jacket— _fucking_ calm. Okay, so, there’s a situation. No shit, Sugawara, there’s a situation. A person—oh, a male body is in his bed with his half-hard, well endowed partner pressed into his ass. That’s okay, Sugawara reasons. That’s alright. That’s cool. That’s swell. 

 

Right between the swell of his cheeks. His sticky, sore cheeks. Oh, okay. 

 

The part of finding particularly a male body in his bed, excluding the fact that they're now concludingly post-coital, was not a surprise to Sugawara. By the time he was a third year in middle school and received his first confession under the shadows of the gym building he realized that he couldn’t return those feelings for the opposite sex, disappointing Mira Hinamori from Class B and following teen girls aplenty. He doesn’t know exactly when he’d realized, lingering on the hairlines trimmed neatly around the curved ears of Shinto Ryusei or thinking of jutting jaw bones and bulbing hip muscles on those magazine pages he had kept tucked behind the boxes under his bed.

 

Being with a man was not a scary thought for him. He made that known in high school, with a flushed Asahi and oblivious Daichi, or if quietly but surely when asked by a classmate, and shown by the marker graffitied on his desk once every few months for the first two years. He’d been on dates which included unfortunate one-sided prank dates and had a hook-up or two with older businessmen in those bars that he could frequent without fear. But he hasn’t done that casual sort of thing since high school, too crusted by the leftover effect and unsure of what he wanted. 

 

So, why was he half naked, wet on his lower back, half-drunk with another man in his bed?

 

“Hmrgh,” The man behind him leans in. Sugawara shuts his eyes and feels a nose dig into his neck. 

 

Sugawara holds his breath as he feels the hand on his hip creep down, snaking a tighter hold of back to chest. But the hand stills and the body behind him stiffens too. The knee between his legs wiggles, as if to test its existence, and to Sugawara’s relief and horror the leg along with the accompanying foreign body disappears completely from his skin. 

 

He’s still behind him and Sugawara keeps his eyes closed tight, hoping the early-onset heart attack he’s currently experiencing won’t give away the fact he’s wide awake along with whoever is in his bed. “Oh, shit,” he hears, weight dipping on the bed. Steady your breathing, Suga. Don’t move. 

 

A large thump and shake of the bed. The guy’s fallen off the bed. 

 

Sugawara’s starting to think he’s not the only one confused here. 

 

There’s further groaning and mumbled curses but Sugawara’s too busy focusing on playing dead to care about the man crawling about on the floor. He’s never been one to back away from confrontation, but with his ass out and a foggy head he’s not sure he’s ready to face reality anytime soon. Better to feign sleep and wait until the man leaves for good. 

 

But there’s something new worrying Sugawara. Why does that rumbling throat sound so familiar, gravelly and irritated as he imagines the man clumsily steps into his clothes. It’s...too familiar? And achingly comforting. It reminds him of spotting a friend in a morning class, of sneakers squeaking on volleyball courts and strong slaps to the back from across the net.

 

Oh no. Oh, _no_. 

 

The man’s stumbled over something and lets slip a swear, all the while Sugawara’s neurons fire rapidly with horrifying realization. He sounds far away. Maybe, if he turns his head just a smidge and slips his eyes open just for a peek…

 

His eyes adjust in the dark swathe of the studio apartment to find the creeping body, hand steadying on the opposite wall. He’s also still slightly drunk, Sugawara poses, as he sways in attempting to put one leg in his jeans at his time, heel and knee stuck in miscommunication. One sock is on and the other’s missing, well forgotten. Sugawara travels his gaze upwards, lofting on strong, hairy thighs that lead to two well kept-for, healthy cheeks. There’s a mole just across the moon of the right one, sitting snug before his hip. 

 

There’s a clear crick in his neck but Sugawara doesn’t care and neither does the pounding of his heart, because he recognizes that t-shirt. He recognizes it because he’s made fun of the small hole he sees in the shoulder, but never pushes too far because this shade of red always looked good on him, but never voiced it, always swallowing the thought as quickly as it came. He still doesn’t think this is happening but it is and he sees his head, bent over, hair on his nape sticking up and crinkled to hell like the rest of the hair on his scalp. 

 

He sees just the hint his jaw, clenched tight as he tries his best to concentrate—and probably not throw up—on getting his briefs and jeans up in one go but it’s not proving to be an easy task. Sugawara’s quite frozen now, because he’s starting to remember that wrinkled nose from last night, the way it snorted at his corny jokes over their fourth round of beers and those eyes that crinkled when recalling how they could see the slip of the instructor’s wig during lecture the day before. He’s starting to remember, as stocky hands finally pull up his trousers, how they found themselves stumbling out of the izakaya and to his apartment— “‘s closer,” Suga had slurred into the shoulder around his neck, “and, you’ll never make it home,”—and held each other up the stairs so they could stumble through the door. 

 

He remembers being dropped on the bed but tripping a body in the process, and remembers how soft that crown of hair felt under his fingertips. The man he definitely knows now turns and looks at him and he knows he should’ve been pretending to be asleep but can’t help but stare at those lips that dared touched his first last night, with such surprisingly soft nerve. Oh. 

 

Iwaizumi Hajime, eyes wide and terrified having now been spotted, bolts from the room. 

 

Sugawara still stares at where he once stood, processing that the wetness between his thighs is both his and Iwaizumi’s and wonders dizzily if he’ll come back for the jacket still left under his table as Iwaizumi trips over putting his shoes on by the door. But he doesn’t and runs out the door, like a spooked cat in a once empty hallway. Sugawara still holds his twisted position, eyes glazed and answers now well baked in his head before rolling to his back with a huff. 

 

He and Iwaizumi. They.

 

“Well,” Sugawara says to the ceiling.

 

He rolls to the side of the bed, and pukes.


	2. Shadows

“Iwaizumi.”

 

There’s a ruffle of fabric but no dice. 

 

“Yo. I-wai-zu-mi.”

 

“Mrngh,” comes the final response. 

 

Yoshida chuckles but in the end settles for a good kick at his classmate’s chair. “Out partying late? This is a first.”

 

Correction: it was a never. In fact, it was quite the opposite, but Iwaizumi was doubly too hungover and too out of sorts to even care to clarify. Yesterday was everything but what it usually was for him. Sundays were reserved for homework and studying, or begrudgingly running errands for his mother, or pretending to avoid longer-than-necessary phone calls from a certain annoying childhood friend who now decided that their newly established distance between Tohoku and Chuo warranted three hours or more of blowing his ear off every weekend. But nevermind that. 

 

Because instead of following his simpler, more peaceful Sunday routine, Iwaizumi found himself stumbling into his house, knocking over and cracking a ceramic piece that sat in precarious bounds on his trip to the bathroom to vomit and pass out, lips hanging off the toilet seat just as the birds began to titter their morning greetings. 

 

Iwaizumi could hear those stupid birds from his spot on the linoleum, imagining they were chattering way about him. Mocking him. “Too late,” they chirped. “You fucked up.”

 

Instead of preparing for classes, Iwaizumi woke up hours later that Sunday afternoon, face crusty and nauseated at having an empty stomach but no desire to eat. He remembered feeling grateful that his parents were gone for the weekend and then remembering that it was this sort of thinking that started the whole damn thing in the first place. He would’ve never stayed out that late and drank that much that Saturday night if he’d known he’d have to return to a full house. So for once, he gave into Sugawara’s—and he spasmed for a moment at even thinking of his _name_ at that moment— ridiculous proddings and matched him beer for beer, drink for drink, elbow to elbow and then the next moment they were unlocking a door that wasn’t his and Sugawara was helping him wrestle out of his jacket, all the while laughing and stepping on each other’s feet— 

 

And then Iwaizumi let out a strangled screech of a noise and curled into a tight ball on the toilet room floor, because that’s where the memories stopped. 

 

When he woke up, grinding against Sugawara, he’d hoped that maybe all wasn’t as it seemed. No, right. Friends share beds all the time. Oikawa refused to use the guest futon half the time even when they entered high school. But, as the numbing cleared from his thoughts and he became more conscious of the stiff muscles under the grip of his arm, he was highly certain they never woke up half naked, reddening bite marks on their necks. Or with used condom wrappers sticking to their hips. 

 

So Iwaizumi ran. He ran out the door, horrendously not dodging Sugawara’s cloudy gaze, ran halfway to his house before puking by a lamp post, then ran the rest of the way home to finish heaving into his toilet so that he could wake up on that floor, tearing out his hair.

 

Iwaizumi believed in direct causation. He believed that specific input lead to specific output. Outcomes could be guaranteed by limited and careful procedure. Put a coin in the slot, turn the knob, out comes the prize. It is for this spartan manner of thinking that he can’t for the life of him begin to understand how he ended up sleeping with Sugawara. 

 

So, considering the weekend thoroughly ruined, Iwaizumi cleaned his mess from the toilet and set to gluing back together his mother’s cracked case. Focus on what you can fix now, he repeated in his head, soon sticky hands poorly lining up mismatched shards.

 

For one, Iwaizumi wasn’t gay. He’d had a couple of short term girlfriends that he was very much attracted to in high school—but nobody tolerant enough for a volleyball schedule—and definitely was a tits man. He was sure Sugawara didn’t have those. No, Sugawara had firm pecs, yet still soft and barely cushioned under the thumb. A nipple, rosy and petite, budded lewdly under his breath. When he bit at it hard—

 

Iwaizumi let the vase slip from his hands and shatter in his lap. He shoved the remains in a plastic bag, grabbed his father’s pack of beer from the fridge, and locked himself in his room to set forth on forgetting the rest of the weekend. 

 

Now, as he buries his head further into his arms in hopes of molding to the desk, he’s starting to reevaluate his impulsive coping mechanisms. 

 

“Suga!” 

 

He didn’t flinch. Just stretched his shoulders. Violently. 

 

“Yo!” Shit. Shit shit shit. 

 

“Hey, have you started on the assignment for Wednesday yet?” Iwaizumi felt Yoshida shift against his shoulder. “I don’t understand it at all.”

 

He hears Sugawara laugh above him, imagines him adjusting the hold on his bag in front of his desk, cocking his head and showing off that smirk. Iwaizumi grips at his elbows, fingertips white. “Yoshida, you just wanna copy it, don’t ya?”

 

“What! Give me a break, you bastard.”

 

“Excuses, excuses. I’ll consider helping you out.” There’s a pause, and Iwaizumi tenses. “What’s with him?”

 

Yoshida hums whilst Iwaizumi continues to play dead. “I think he’s hungover.”

 

“...Hmm. On a Monday?”

 

“Right?” A sharp elbow digs into his ribs and he grumbles a curse. “I saved you a seat. Sit here.”

 

“Ah, thanks.”

 

He had rehearsed this moment in his head, in the turmoil of his commute to this class. Practiced his mannerisms to exhaustion. He would slouch in his indifferent default, give a nod to Sugawara as he spotted him bouncing through the door, as he did without fail every Monday morning. But mimicking reality is an impossible task and one that Iwaizumi has clearly failed, pulse pounding in his throat at the mere sound of his voice, underarms surely wet. He hopes his shirt doesn’t stain and give him away. Overnight, he’s turned into a coward.

 

Chair legs scrape floors and the din grows as students fill the class. He hears Sugawara laugh at something Yoshida’s said beside him but still remains buried in his arms. A call to attention breaks through the noise, scattering the talk and lifting Iwaizumi from the desk as the professor begins the class. 

 

He chances a glance to his right, eyes sliding.

 

He’s tucked his hair behind his ear but shorter, silver strands still fall abandoned over his eyebrow. Sugawara’s biting at his lips, as if it in thought, or consternation, or worry, or something, as he flips through some loose papers in his notebook. Iwaizumi doesn’t realize he’s turned his head, eyes tracing slender fingertips flicking through sheets. His nails are blunt but still drag on the corners of the paper, lingering for a moment, turning through after a pass, repeat to step one. His calluses, once probably thick and peeling from endless volleyball days, have softened, and for a moment he remembers pressing their palms together, his thicker digits shadowing Sugawara’s own, pressing with ghostly touch down and into the bed. He had stilled his hips beyond his own knowing, attention lost in slender palms shivering under his own. He curled his fingers, scratching down the joints of the knuckles, to draw in his palm lines. _Palmar flexion creases,_ he corrected to himself, something he learned in this very class, something he whispered without wit into Sugawara’s cheek, and watched him titter and quicken his breath somehow simultaneously. He was breathing so hard, and Iwaizumi couldn’t figure out why, wanted to know why, why, _why_ , eyes dragging to silver eyelashes, to sun specks, to pointed nose, to lip—

 

There’s a sharp cough several rows behind and Iwaizumi jolts. He’s bit his tongue in his flinch and presses it to the roof of his mouth to ease the pain. All the while his heart jumps around in his chest, fear of being caught, ears reddening at being pulled into such memories now of all times, and jumps again in his skin at a poke to his arm. 

 

“Hey,” Yoshida whispers. “You gonna take any notes anytime soon?”

 

And he realizes, with horror, that he’s taken something longer than an inconspicuous glance at Sugawara over his mate’s shoulders, himself still sitting with bag packed and naked desk whilst Sugawara scribbles notes into oblivion, on the other side of the world. Flipped side of the coin, free of concern, placid expression and muted eyes. Iwaizumi, face hot, unzips his bag. 

 

What. Is. He. Doing. 

 

The class passes without much more incident. With the professor’s dismissal, Yoshida stretches, arms knocking at Iwaizumi’s shoulders and rattling him without care. 

 

“Watch out, asshole,” Slips off his tongue with little bite and much less reaction as his friend instead rattles something at Sugawara, both moving out of the row. He takes his time closing his notebook, sliding pencils and eraser back into bag, zipping and smoothing out stiff wrinkles on his bag. The idleness covers his rootless panic, unsure of how to join the two chatting back and forth now outside of the classroom. He can hear them, with Sugawara’s surprisingly rowdy guffaws echoing through the doors. He swallows and stands. 

 

A couple of people from their circle, Hagiwara and Saito, crowd with Yoshida and Sugawara by the windows in the hallway. Iwaizumi brushes through hurrying students to slip by. 

 

“Yo! Back from the dead, I hear.” Saito’s booming, as always, uncaring to staring passersby.

 

“Where you going, Iwaizumi?” Hagiwara chimes in. “Heard our little boy had a rough night.”

 

Iwaizumi sighs and treks back. 

 

“I have things to do, like study.” It’s unconvincing and the concept earns him a laugh all around. “Don’t you idiots have anything better to do?”

 

“Come on, man. Don’t change the subject.”

 

“Saito, maybe he’s right. You should definitely be studying.” Yoshida looks up, finger on chin, feigning pensive. “Aren’t you failing English?” 

 

“Shut up! Sore topic!” 

 

It’s volleying banter, with jabs in between Yoshida and Saito and the bunch egging on. Iwaizumi, head still pounding, demeanor still awkward, feels his lips curl to let out a chuckle despite it all. He inadvertently flicks his eyes to Sugawara, usually his complement and now stands across from him. He’s grinning, letting slip something crude that Iwaizumi doesn’t focus on in time, kicking at Hagiwara’s calves. 

 

“So who gets drunk on a Sunday?”

 

“Huh?” He whips his head—in poor decision, swallowing at his nausea—towards Saito. 

 

“Yeah, you looked rough this morning, bro.” Yoshida, shorter than him by two centimeters, dares to rub his head like a juvenile. He swats his palm away. “Want the master to teach you his hangover cure?”

 

“Shut up. It’s not that big of a deal.”

 

Hagiwara hums, eyes narrowing. “But two nights in a row? This is a rare Iwaizumi before us!”

 

Iwaizumi feels his pulse jump. “Two? What do you mean?”

 

“Well, didn’t you go out drinking with Sugawara? On Saturday?”

 

And his eyes widen, and he feels pinching in his stomach because he forgot he’s supposed to be wary and ready and instead he’s unprepared on how to act as he usually does.

 

So he says: “What? No!”

 

But he doesn’t quite say it, and realizes to his full humiliation that he’s, instead, yelled it, in the same way someone would yell if they were being cornered on a dark street about to be mugged, and with such weird fluctuation in his voice that two girls chatting by turn and give the five this look of what almost appears to be offense. 

 

He nervously looks at Sugawara who, deadly unreadable, stares back.

 

Iwaizumi should’ve never crawled out of bed today. 

 

“Uh,” Saito says, eyes sliding back and forth at the two, “But I thought you two said—”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’s still somewhat loud, and he wants stab himself in the neck or the eye so he can maybe make his neurons fire faster because what the _hell_ is he doing and now he can’t look Sugawara in the eye. Instead he bores into that mole, perfect imperfection, four sets of eyes still very much fixed on him in bizarre form. 

 

Everyone, expectedly, is silent, and for a time that is achingly long. Long enough for Iwaizumi to write his will in his head. However, that mole that holds his eyes crinkles and Sugawara laughs. 

 

“Yeah, he canceled on me,” Sugawara scratches at his head, raking back longer strands from his face. “Said he had to do something for a friend.”

 

He’s covering for him, and Iwaizumi doesn’t know why; knows that he doesn’t deserve it for the fools he’s making out of the both of them but he can’t seem to open his mouth anymore without something worse slipping out. 

 

“O-oh, okay,” Saito chuckles nervously, which causes Hagiwara to chuckle nervously, before it’s a circle of nervously chuckling losers. 

 

Iwaizumi decides the best thing he can do, at this point, is escape. “Yeah. Well,” he turns, rubbing at his neck. “I gotta go.”

 

Yoshida chances another rub at his head but he hits his hand away, again, and trudges down the hallway. That could’ve gone worse, he thought. Worse would’ve been choking on his spit mid-conversation, face purpling from asphyxiation, only to drop and die right there outside of Intro to Kinesiology. Actually, that sounds like a better scenario. 

 

Iwaizumi shivers away his embarrassment, shoving hands in his pockets. The trek to the library isn’t far but the summer weather has finally caught up to July. They’re only weeks into the month but the heat singes his neck and ears, too quick too tan but not too bothered to grumble about it as he exits the hall and crosses the courtyard. It’s really the rain that, quite literally, dampens him—always feeling the need to consider a jacket should a sudden shower rumble the sky. They had off and on pours, since Thursday at least—which is why he brought a jacket that night, and good thing he did, remembering the loud clatter of rain against fabric storecover as they stepped out of the izakaya, wobbling against each other. He’d accidentally bumped into Sugawara after paying, not watching him stop in front of him and pushing him into the falling flood. He’d yelped as—

 

Oh, my god. _NO,_ he willed himself. Stop thinking. 

 

But his will was weak and he scrubbed at his eyes as he remembered Sugawara turn to him, fine hair already slick against his head, bangs curled on his forehead in a way that Iwaizumi couldn’t stop thinking about. “Iwaizumi!” He’d shouted, grin gleaming at him and through him, barely heard through the downpour.

 

“Iwaizumi!” But he was still shouting, voice breathless, and Iwaizumi felt himself twitch somewhere he really shouldn’t before realizing someone was actually calling his name right now. 

 

“Iwaizumi—wait!”

 

He continued to walk, too unsure of how or where to look if he turned around. But Sugawara was persistent and caught up to him regardless, grabbing at his arm. 

 

“Jeez, slow down, won’t you?” Sugawara’s lightly panting, clutching at his bag. 

 

Iwaizumi swallows, looks down then somewhere above those tufts of hair. “What is it?”

 

“Uh, hold on.” He lifts his arm to dig in his bag, pulling out folded fabric. “Here. You left this at my place on Saturday.”

 

It’s his jacket. He blinks, looks at how Sugawara’s wrist bends in slight strain to hold it between them, before grabbing it roughly. Iwaizumi nods in his general direction before stepping to leave. 

 

“Wait!” Sugawara’s grip returns to his arm. 

 

“What?”

 

“Well…” Iwaizumi connects his eyes with Sugawara’s, finally. “Are you okay? You’re acting weird.”

 

Iwaizumi feels too much anger bubble in his throat; knows that he shouldn’t be this bothered by Sugawara’s seemed cluelessness but feels his face tighten anyways. “Wha— are you kidding me?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Of course I’m acting weird. Who wouldn’t? We—” he swallows the words, but sees the quick jump in Sugawara’s eyebrows to know he knows. 

 

“Eh, right.” Brown eyes flick down, feet shuffling. 

 

It’s not enough of a reaction for him. How could he be so calm? How can this not bother him? “How come you’re not freaking out about this?”

 

He’s said it, and Iwaizumi feels like he should regret it by how Sugawara’s fingers twist at his sides. “Uh. I mean, I don’t know? I was surprised… by what happened. But I’m trying to be an adult about it.”

 

“So, what?” His head jerks up to meet Iwaizumi’s glare. “I’m being childish, then?”

 

Sugawara lets out a noise. “I mean, a little? Did you just forget how you acted back there?”

 

“Well! I—I didn’t know what to say!”

 

“And so your best choice is just suddenly pretending like we _didn’t_ make plans in front of everyone last week?”

 

“No, that—I wasn’t—” Iwaizumi wipes his face, groaning. “I panicked, okay?”

 

“Iwaizumi,” he says, and Iwaizumi watches his hands still, his eyebrows set in this line. Sugawara’s face is solemn and untelling, opaque glass, reading at his vulnerabilities. “Why are you acting so weird about all of this?”

 

Iwaizumi will remember that he’ll regret his response. He’ll think back to each word uttered, inflection rising, voice echoing under the shadows stretched by the walkway pillars. He’ll think about what he said as it leaves his mouth, in frustration and confusion and deep rooted _fear_ and think immediately that he has a right to feel this way. Then he’ll ponder, for days, this moment recorded in his mind, rewinding and looped, until he realizes and blood chills under his skin. 

 

“Because!” He says, almost yelling at Sugawara’s feet. “I’m a guy. And you’re a guy. This is isn’t normal. What we did wasn’t… normal. I can’t just blow off what happened like it was no big deal, okay? So sorry if I’m not used to doing things like this and can just bounce back to act like everything’s okay.”

 

He breathes out, sighing against his hammering heart. He looks at Sugawara who hasn’t moved through it all, eyes still locking on his, but notices a small tremor in his jaw. 

 

“Okay,” he says, voice so small compared to Iwaizumi’s own. “Sorry to bother you.”

 

They stand in limbo of the courtyard, words being swallowed with every breath, thoughts screaming between them in silence. The look on Sugawara’s face hasn’t changed but Iwaizumi can’t figure out why it’s bothering him. For some reason, something in him is urging him to grab his hand, now clenching and unclenching at his side. Grab it and match their fingers up like he’d done before on that Saturday night. 

 

There’s an echo of laughter to the left, breaking Iwaizumi’s gaze to catch a group of girls walking on the far side. A brush of silver shifts in front of him, stepping back.

 

“Just remember,” Sugawara says, turning. “You kissed me first.”

 

His tongue presses at his teeth, suddenly remembering the bite from before. He doesn’t say anything, not when Sugawara’s shoes scrape in his pivot, not when he looks back to give a final sobering glance before heading back to the other building. Instead, he stands too still, half in the heat of the sun but split by the shadows of the pillars. 

 

But then he’s walking, not further to the library but off campus and past the gates and he’s at the train station, swiping in and stepping on the car. He’s pressed against the door, mind silent, pulse too loud in his ears and he walks out and to his street and past Oikawa’s and to his own house. It’s not until he’s closed his bedroom door that he realizes he’s panting like a madman, eyes blurry and unsure of why he’s close to tears. 

 

He’s pulling at his hair and stumbles to bed and tries to swallow at the knot building in his throat but it’s all too hard. Everything’s become too difficult. Of fucking course, how could he forget, how they stumbled through Sugawara’s door with rain weighing down their clothes but not their voices as they joked and pushed against each other. He remembers struggling to get out of his jacket before Sugawara knocked his numb hands away. “Here, let me,” came through small giggles in a voice breathy on his tongue and Iwaizumi found himself entranced by pink, parted lips. They were small and wet, more likely from the rain than spit, but he still wondered if they would taste sweet as Sugawara pulled the stuck zipper loose.

 

He remembers getting caught, having become too still and Sugawara looking at him with confusion, before he yanked the jacket off to plop on the floor and pushed at his smaller chest telling him he was too close. Get away from me, he had thought, but Sugawara chuckled at his red ears only to slip in the pooling water. He knocked at his ankles, Iwaizumi tumbling after him onto his bed.

 

Iwaizumi feels his knees lock up and curls further into his bed, into his memories, remembering how it seemed so kitsch that this would happen, arms caging in Sugawara, hips aligned on his bed. But he doesn’t seem to remember how long he’s been thinking about moments about these and when they started. But he knows for certain that he can’t stop thinking about Sugawara’s lips that sit wet just breaths from him and so he asked, “Can I kiss you?”

 

Sugawara stilled, and Iwaizumi thought he saw horror cross his face before his eyes softened. “Okay.”

 

So he palmed his cheek and met his lips with his own. 

 

It seemed so easy, in the end, and almost formulaic, like an algorithm that had completed its input, like something that was meant to happen, lips sliding against soft, pink flesh, breath slipping out harder than before. He licked between that crevice, and slid forward as it gave way. Sugawara pressed his hips up with rhythm as Iwaizumi licked into his mouth, ran the tip of his tongue along the ridges of the hard palate, another tongue daring to dance at his own. Molars, incisors, lingual frenulum, ducts, filiform papillae all being mapped and burned and recorded. And Iwaizumi, now, here, the one present in his own bed, shaken in his memories, catches himself palming at his crotch but not stopping from unzipping and reaching in, like Sugawara had with fervor, stroking at his leaking cock.

 

The room had lit up before a clap of thunder followed in its wake, Sugawara pulled from his lips to grab something from the drawer by his bed. Iwaizumi busied himself with his jeans before he wrestled them and his underwear down in rough jerks, wet fabric sticking to his thighs. He kicked them off the bed before grabbing at Sugawara’s own, urging his hips up to bare his skin, cock flapping up from its hold. 

 

A sticky hand pushed him to the side and he watched as Sugawara reached down, leg pulling up, to finger at his own puckered flesh teeth biting into pink lips. And the Iwaizumi now feels his hand grow slick, cock dribbling and throbbing in his grip, jerking wild and panting at how Sugawara’s eyes closed shut when he pressed his finger into that flesh, ass pulling. He remembers leaning on his side in awe, watching Sugawara finger himself, his face red from arousal and maybe embarrassment and himself itched to reach forward and did so, his own digits then becoming pressed against Sugawara’s. Iwaizumi lined his finger with his, becoming doused in lube, matching that same pace. His forearm brushed against Sugawara’s balls and he didn’t shutter like he thought he would but instead pressed closer, inhaling sharply, skin swaying on skin in his pumping. Another finger squeezed in and Sugawara moaned and Iwaizumi felt a little cum dribble from his dick at the sound. He felt so virginal in this moment, so uncertain and shaky and new. 

 

And so he explored, pulling his fingers apart inside next to Sugawara’s own, melting in the heat and against tight, wet flesh. His pulse pounded in his mouth, listened to Sugawara’s sounds, reacting to the jut of his hips with every prod. And just when it seemed like he could reach just a bit further in he feels Sugawara pull him closer and breath against his lips: _I need you._

 

And now, Iwaizumi writhes in bed, hips jerking into his hand, noises escaping his teeth, because he remembers it all, every detail he locked away behind that door now sliming through the cracks. Remembers how Sugawara ripped foil and grabbed between Iwaizumi’s legs to slip on latex before his legs wrapped around his back. He remembers lining his hips up to Sugawara’s own, clothed cock brushing at cock before smaller hands guided him into tight, tight heat. He almost whimpered at the finality, breathing heavily into Sugawara’s ear, struggling to move in his ass’s grip. He knows now, that it wasn’t the last time, that they would spend hours before falling asleep in each others grips to make each other lose their breaths, flipping Sugawara over to rail him into the bed, before being pulled down and rode lewdly, flesh slapping wet flesh, sex staining the room. But in that moment, as his balls tighten close to release, he remembers how in those first ruts that found himself to the hilt, bottomed out and breathing into Sugawara’s mouth, he earned his name slipping from pretty, pink lips into his own. 

 

The Iwaizumi, then, and now, comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A disclaimer:
> 
> This is in the voice of an unreliable narrator. There are things noted, in particular the reasoning of Iwaizumi not being gay because he's a "tits man" that aren't factually true. Breasts, having them or not, don't define you as woman or man: body doesn't label gender. But this judgement, and lack of understanding on Iwaizumi's part, will be explored in further chapters.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	3. Details

His hips, slicked with sweat and marred with the impression of a sticky palm began to ache. Iwaizumi was heavy above him, around him, and inside of him but at some point between the second condom and the one now, that weight had begun to slip on the back of his glutes. The stretch crawled through his back, tightening with thrust, attributing to every loosened moan. Sugawara’s ankle slipped on his hip. Iwaizumi’s eyes, half-lidded, flicked from his own to his parted lips.

 

“I can’t,” Sugawara clenched back at the tightening between his hips. “I’m going to—”

 

“Me too,” Slaps crescendoed through the dark but Iwaiumi’s pants still rang clear. Strained, leaking with hint of whine. A thumb slid over the head of his cock and suddenly Sugawara’s chest felt six times tighter. “It’s okay. Do it.”

 

The heat surrounding Iwaizumi squeezed at the command in his voice, earning a groan into his neck. Sugawara’s eyes fluttered, and something else not too deep inside of him did too— but the latter unlike the former was unwelcome and therefore erased before it could be given time to dwell on. Instead, he focused on the wet on his body, once rain now turned sweat and stick and spit that would be hell to deal with in due time but at that moment let skin move against skin. He rolled his head to nudge at the crown burrowing into his neck, and as if he could read his screaming thoughts Iwaizumi pulled back to crawl back into his mouth. Sugawara thought of how in such a short time they’d gone from chilled in the rain to burning each others mouths with wet tongues and poor kisses. 

 

Thick hips began to stutter into fast, choked pumps. Sugawara slapped an arm around Iwaizumi’s neck to pull him ever closer. His hips bounced off the sheets to knock a terrible rhythm into much thicker ones above. “Come on, come on.”

 

With a groan Iwaizumi snapped his final thrust deep, length pulsing in its final throes as Sugawara released the grip he had on his own to come in turn. It’s a messy finish as cum jumped in rivelets on skin that can’t be told belongs to whom whilst condom slipped off as Iwaizumi pulled out. Collapsed, they knocked heads and rutted in abandon, despite nothing left within each other. He felt a rapid pulse pounding against his own neck and ignored how very, very wrong this all was. 

 

Sugawara jumped; foreign fingers pulled at his nipple. A moan slipped from his mouth as teeth replaced digits. “Hey.”

 

Iwaizumi, preoccupied, continued to suck on his chest. Sugawara kicked at his ankle impatiently. 

 

“Hey.” His voice was loud and throbbing in his throat, tight from the noises he’d already let slip through into the night. “Move so I can take my jacket off, at least.”

 

 _“Nn.”_ With no clear indication to stop, Sugawara took that as a no. He sighed, not in the least bit irritated despite the lines between his eyebrows. 

 

Bells of a bike rang muffled in the room, through the misted window from the alleyway below still slick and humid from the rain. If the intrusion of the outside didn’t bring Sugawara back from the clouded stupor he was sure the heat had. Iwaizumi, still buried in his chest and heavy on his legs felt hot with every connect of skin.

 

Sugawara, not yet done daring, while ambiguity still rang loud enough to be forgiven for a touch too long, brought heavy hand to the top of bristled hair. But, correction: fingers edged through to find short hairs prickled from sweat but soft. Iwaizumi, attached to a nipple, shuddered at the feel of his nails against his scalp. 

 

 _This is so weird._ Sugawara swallowed, sound deafening in the heavy quiet. _This is so very, very weird._

 

Iwaizumi huffs on his collarbone, back deflating with his breath. He sounded as Sugawara felt— two turns from delirious, just enough gone to take up any terrible, reckless, indulgent idea. Which, as it turns out, they had. 

 

Since their release and besides his lingering hand that still scratched forgotten in Iwaizumi’s hair, Sugawara tried to keep very still. It’s subconscious at first, until legs ache at their stiffened state between thick knees. He’s afraid one shift will jut the larger back into the present, out of his lust and into knowing that these thighs between his own aren’t soft but stocky limbs of hair and musk with more than he was used to found in the middle. Sugawara took tempered breaths to keep his chest from rocking the tongue in his jacket. 

 

But Iwaizumi shifted, a rustle of clothes and grunts. He pulled up, hands braced on the sides of Sugawara to rise but his forearms shake before he fell with a heave back onto a chest. 

 

Sugawara flinched at the impact. His hand, having slid out of Iwaizumi’s hair, brushed at his wrist still dug beside him. 

 

“Oh,” is all Sugawara’s ears can catch. He held back a laugh, a huff instead to the dark ceiling. 

 

A wet pressure crawled up his neck, dragging. Iwaizumi mouthed at budding veins and a pulse that jumped when he bit at Sugawara’s ear.

 

His heart, unloyal bastard, jumped around his chest. Sugawara’s voice came out like a lost message. “You still drunk?”

 

A tongue licked where teeth found purchase. Grey strands shivered at his nose. “I don’t know.”

 

Sugawara grinned, his ribs aching. From the weight of this heavy man or of the day to follow, he couldn’t care to think about. 

 

Swallowing, he tilted his head, catching nose against nose. Breath culled against his cheeks. “Do you think you’ll remember this?” Eyes flickered, strained against such close scrutiny. “Any of this… tomorrow?”

 

Iwaizumi, half lidded, expression blank, let out an exhale. “I don’t know,” he whispered, before lowering his lips to Sugawara’s.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"You sure?"

 

He pulls the locker open. "Yeah, yeah."

 

"Really? Because I can—"

 

Sugawara sighs, taking off his shirt. "Seriously, Ibu. You keep asking and I'll take it back."

 

"No no! Sorry, okay—" He pats at the metal door, chuckling. "You're saving my life, man."

 

"Yeah, well, now you'll owe me that and more."

 

"Shit. I'll do whatever you need at this point."

 

Sugawara settles for a laugh, ducking his head. Fridays were typically longer days. Three classes from morning to midday, with only a bite of a pause to spare before running to his part-time job. The izakaya wasn’t demanding, nor was it without benefit: the pay was good and the hours were flexible, and he could drink beer casually on his days off here if he wanted— which he did, last Saturday night—

 

Plus, picking up shifts could be done easily, as he had done with Ibu, and just moments before that Sometani, and yesterday Tsumuchin as well. Not that he was busying himself to think less or to avoid problems that were doing just fine avoiding him on their/his own. His rent was due soon, and summer break would be here in barely a couple weeks, in case he was considering taking a trip for a couple days and he’d need the extra cash. There was nothing more to it. 

 

Nothing more, and nothing less. 

 

He closes his locker and ties his apron. Body stood as paper, cardboard if he dared, insides merely a farce. Fridays were longer days not only because of his classes and the work but mostly because every person and the next was in agreement that this was the last hurrah. Short patience, rustling bodies, antsy manners. Students quabbled with little care during lectures and checked their phones with abandon. Streets moved at the pace of light, in hurries to get home or to the bar or to their dates or to the recess of themselves. Sugawara’s curse to please and jitter and mosey every shoulder that brushed his wore him thin, and Fridays marred that curse in his blood. 

 

But Fridays were always somewhat bearable. Sugawara felt his shoulders clench. Always bearable, because of—

 

“Something up with Iwaizumi?” Sugawara had jumped in his seat at the name, too obvious to go unnoticed by Saito. He remembers they were having an early lunch with class cut 12 minutes short. Saito hummed at the reaction. 

 

“Let me rephrase,” he drawled, head tilting back with eyes still locked on Sugawara’s flaky gaze. “Something up with _you_ and Iwaizumi?”

 

“Uh…” besides his visible reaction, it was already hard enough to deny. In the two classes he shared with him, Iwaizumi had come conveniently just before he’d be considered late and sat in the back. By Wednesday, Yoshida had raised an eyebrow at the behavior, and by Thursday, everyone had noticed he’d been dodging their meetups between breaks. 

 

“...Well?” 

 

“Well...I mean, I think— I think it’s fine. I’m good. We’re good.”

 

“Okay, but,” The taller boy sat back in his chair, arms crossed. Sugawara caught his leg begin to jitter. “That’s… not very convincing.”

 

“Convincing?” He scoffed. “Why would I have to be convincing when I’m telling the truth?”

 

“The truth, Suga? You’re the mastermind of lies.”

 

“Huh?! Wha—”

 

“The king of liars. Invented the definition. Could probably teach a master class on it.”

 

“I _do not_ lie—”

 

“Remember that time you told Ebisu-senpai that Hogiwara didn’t have any feeling in his arm before he sat next to her at that goukon and she stabbed him with a chopstick?”

 

“Okay… that was funny, though—”

 

“Or when you burst into tears saying your imaginary sister was in the middle of surgery and we were on the way to hospital when that cop caught us riding two on a bicycle?”

 

“Uh—”

 

“ _Or,_ which I really can’t believe to this day, when you told Iwaizumi that Hirayama Kento’s hair was a wig and he tried to pull it off—”

 

Sugawara buried his face into his hands. 

 

“Or—”

 

“Okay, I get it,” He scrubbed his palms into his eyes. “I’m untrustworthy. I’m a liar. Whatever. But I’m telling you the truth—everything’s okay. He’s just awkward, you know that.”

 

“Liar.”

 

And Sugawara looked up to find Saito too serious, fists dug into his arms. Sometimes he couldn’t stand him. He, unlike Iwaizumi or the rest of the idiots he tolerated, couldn’t be manipulated easily to believe that not a crack was present in Sugawara’s carefully curated facade. But Saito was a trained reader. He would take a hammer and smash him in. 

 

“You can lie about most things,” he said. “But you can never lie about Iwaizumi.”

 

Sugawara shivers at those words, still ringing in his bones hours later as he takes orders and reigns plastic smiles between tables and customers and fellow part timers.

 

It’s the concept of the conclusion. Saito had said it with such finality, like a theorist running test after test through hypotheses until law. What had he seen, between him and _him_ , in the few months they had grabbed and pinched at each other? What had he said about Iwaizumi when he wasn’t in the room that would make Saito’s thoughts linger just a little longer? 

 

What did he look like when he was thinking about Iwaizumi?

 

Long Fridays were long but busy enough that Sugawara could let time slip through his body. Weekend rush kicked off with a bang while he picked up shifts enough to not have free time to sit still for a month. The ache in his legs was inconsequential. The bruises on his chest were fading. Out of sight, out of mind. 

 

“Yo.” Masuda, a byproduct of a carefree life, slaps at his shoulder on break. “Heard you’re on the manager’s hit list.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Sugawara takes a drag on his cigarette, looking on to brick wall without a beat. Masuda was both a bother and a welcomed presence. Anything more than six minutes of his presence was usually a headache unasked for, but Sugawara didn’t need the quiet at the moment. “How so?”

 

He laughs, scuffs his feet on the wall before he reaches for the pack and lighter in Sugawara’s pocket. He grabs it without much fuss, lighting one for himself. “Says you brought some guy in here last weekend and got drunk. Still surprised he lets you drink in here underage.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. As long as you don’t run your mouth.” Sugawara looks at him pointedly. 

 

He smirks, warmed by the attention. He slides closer, leg kicking up the wall to block Sugawara between his body and the trash bins. “So… who was this guy?”

 

Sugawara looks at him, throat pulling in an odd way. “Nobody.”

 

“Really, huh.” He cocks his head and palms his cigarette, drag long. “Thought you said you weren’t available.”

 

“I’m not.” A blow of smoke shrouds his vision. “Not to you.”

 

Masuda knocks back his head and laughs. Sugawara shifts on his feet, swallowing a grimace before that sharp face is closer than ever, leaning in and breathing down his nose. Teeth gleam in the dim between buildings. 

 

“Well, like I said before,” He gives a generous look down from chin, to much lower, back to glazed eyes. “If you’re ever—”

 

“The answer’s still the same.” Sugawara’s voice, unlike Masuda’s lowered tenor, strikes clear and loud down the walkway.

 

Eyes, almost slits but still gleaming red, fight hard against Sugawara’s gaze. The quiet he doesn’t need consumes them and Masuda relishes in it, holding the silent fact that he knows Sugawara’s little secret over his head like a guillotine. But Sugawara, unlike his colleagues or the ones left he could call family, could care less what he did with that information. It was more of the ones like Masuda he couldn’t stand.

 

Masuda came, saw, and conquered as a comfortable boy. Silver spoon, loving parents, endless wallet. Better than average schooling, friends aplenty, bully candidate. A nice face and hair he could handle; a body he could play with. His temper, amicable, from lessons learned with girls who wanted nothing to do with him and he who knew who to target who wouldn’t beat him in. He was, through years of pillowed conditioning and lack of challenge, a bored, right-of-perfect boy.

 

College brought new opportunities. 

 

College let him drink and play and stay wherever and however long he wanted, as long as he completed his studies and checked in with his mother and took on a part time job to ease his dad into knowing he was “gaining responsibility.” Living on his own meant more friends and more sex and less sneaking around and playing manners. Living on his own going to a college outside of his prefecture meant different friends. Different sex. 

 

Or friends, interested in sex. Or, possibly. Sugawara.

 

It was a mistake, really— they had gone out with a bunch of coworkers when Sugawara had started, apron crisp and yet to memorize the order. A budding first year to play senior to, he’d latched onto his adopted, loudmouthed prodige and under his arm, ran laps around girls who only made his round face sweat and stiffen. 

 

Masuda, agitated by his short talk and the way he would shy from a petite palm, elbowed him at their third stop of the night.

 

But, as Sugawara tended to do, he learned, he surprised him by turning in his seat to whisper at his ear. “Sorry, senpai,” his hand gripped at his sleeve. “I’m gay.”

 

Masuda remembers pausing, drink slipping slightly out of his hand, before Sugawara placed a palm underneath to steady his grip. He smiled soft, mole crinkling. Almost sad at something he couldn’t place. 

 

He got drunk, more drunk than he was already, pushed Sugawara to the bathroom and grabbed at his crotch. He thought the whole thing was kind of funny. Sugawara, not so much. His eye was swollen for almost a week after that and was forced to work in the kitchen. 

 

Sugawara knew it was nothing but curiosity— a questioning of his body which reacted strongly to his own. A prickling of interest when Masuda knew that this was the time he could show it, that he could “play around” before he left college and partying behind. Masuda took that opportunity, and more. 

 

He would touch him purposefully on accident with any chance he got, or speak lewd nonsense to his ear in corners or backways like these. “If you’re ever interested,” was on repeat, broken record unwilling to be fixed. For Sugawara, it was, and always would be a no. 

 

He’d never be someone’s experiment. This last time was an accident. 

 

Masuda, gaze simmered, slips Sugawara’s cigarettes and lighter back in his pocket before he pulls off with a huff. Defeated for now, beast at bay. “Alright, alright.” He flicks his butt, gives a final glance, then shakes his head with a chuckle. Sugawara looks away. 

 

He hears the back door open and close as he finishes his cigarette, exhales as heavy as his feet. He just wants to go home, throw away all his covers and the sock under his bed and sleep until Monday. 

 

It’s a well kept promise that he repeats to himself throughout the night, finishing the shift and cleaning up after close. He nods and jokes and lies with ease to the roughhousing that keeps everyone on their feet in the back room, changing and leaving without much fuss. He feels Masuda’s eyes follow him until the door closes to the street. 

 

Keys, shower, change, bed. It’s the only goals keeping one foot in front of the other. The only words that draw over empty seats in lab and unanswered texts. He focuses on the sounds of drunken passersby and loud eateries, fast cars and fast bodies. No thoughts on a gaze shrouded by the shadow of a courtyard, shrunken from reject. 

 

He’s so focused on what awaits him he doesn’t see Iwaizumi at his door. 

 

It’s much too late by the time their eyes have locked. He’s much too far from the stairs where he came (but he’s never been a runner. Would let his nails be pulled before he retreated with his tail between his legs) and he’s too far from his door to slam it neatly in his face before he got a word in edgewise. His heart, strangled to submission all week, threatens to jump free from his throat. 

 

His keys shake in his hand. “What are you doing here.”

 

“I—” He jumps up from his crouch against his door. “I didn’t know what time you got off.” Sugawara bumps past him, hand jutting key at the knob and gaze shakey. “I figured I’d just wait, you know, until you were off. I mean, you could’ve gone out, since it is a Friday, but I figured—”

 

“You could’ve texted.” Sugawara just wants to put him out of their misery, with him not used to Iwaizumi rambling and Iwaizumi giving him this look he couldn’t understand. He glances back at his key, jabbing it, desperate for it to click. “I don’t really want you here.”

 

His key clicks in and Iwaizumi shifts beside him, much too close. “I… know. I’m sorry.”

 

“Not sure you are.” He opens the door and steps in. “Goodnight.”

 

Iwaizumi, predictably, shoots forward. His grip on the door is too strong to resist. “Can I come in?”

 

He can’t look at him. He feels lost inside his body, voice tight, limbs numbing. “No.”

 

“I don’t want to talk out here. I don’t want to bother your neighbors.”

 

“They won’t mind,” he lies. 

 

“Well, I do.” Iwaizumi Short Temper Hajime, clenches and unclenches his other fist. He’s bending forward and Sugawara knows he’s trying to catch his gaze but all he can do is inch away. His hand feels slippery on the handle. “I just want to—”

 

“I gave you a chance.” He turns, eyes hard and posture loud to Iwaizumi’s broader shoulders. “You took it. You told me how you felt. And I get it. You were drunk and you made a mistake. But I’m not the one avoiding my friends or—”

 

Sugawara breathes, fingers shaking. Liars are liars until they die. He closes his eyes to ease the wet, turning to face Iwaizumi fully. “Let’s just move on from this. Are we good?”

 

The silence stretches and the door creaks, and Sugawara opens his eyes to Iwaizumi a step closer. It’s strange seeing a face he’s never seen, clenched jaw and strained brows that heat Sugawara’s ribs. For a moment, he’s almost relieved to see Iwaizumi in this much pain. 

 

“No,” he breathes out, hand pulling tighter on the door and shoulders shifting in. “I need—”

 

“Shit, Iwaizumi!” He’s sure a neighbor or two will lean out their door any minute with how loud he’s becoming. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

 

“But I do!” Sugawara jerks back. “Can’t I make mistakes? I said some shitty things and I know that now.”

 

“Good for you. I forgive you,” he lies, again. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

 

“No—stop—fuck!” Iwaizumi’s hand slides through his hair. His eyes are frenzied, sealing slowly shut. “I was confused, okay! I’m still… fuck. I’m still fucking confused.”

 

Sugawara, heart having left body, loosens his grip on the doorknob. “Confused about… what?”

 

“About… this.” The whine in his voice strangles Sugawara. He pulls further back, reconsidering his policy on escaping. “About… about...”

 

“No.” Grey strands shake. He pulls to close the door. “I’m not doing this.”

 

“Sugawara…”

 

“I’m _not_ doing this!”

 

But Iwaizumi steps forward, letting Sugawara fall back with the door still in his grip and pulling Iwaizumi with it. He sees arms reach for him. 

 

“Don’t—!”

 

His words are swallowed by Iwaizumi’s lips, fervent on his own. 

 

The door slams shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eugh.
> 
> First of all, I apologize for such a delay. I had a real excuse at first with no computer, but now I can wholeheartedly say it was a stump in direction. So many paths, so much lack of decision. 
> 
> This chapter, in itself, I'm still not fully satisfied with but it's an edge forward in the direction it needs to go. It's also looking this may be longer than I originally planned for this to be...
> 
> Once again, thank you very much for reading. I appreciate every one of your comments up until now and take them in stride with every word I write. See you all again soon.


End file.
